When I was younger I thought shelters were actually places where people picked up pets as well as drop them off, and that was their actual purpose – like they’d only gas the sick or the ones that had been in there for ages and ages – but then I went to work in a shelter and pretty much all I was doing was passing pets to our euthanist (“Bloody Mick” we used to call him) and processing biohazard bags.

I mean, I didn’t mind the work to be honest – a lot of people there used to get very distressed when Mick mistreated the animals, but I know it was just symptomatic of his condition, and he didn’t mean anything by it – but there wasn’t much optimism to it, you know? Just cycling into work through the fog, gassing unwanted pets, maybe have the odd laugh with Mick but nothing really cheery for all that time.

I’m glad I got out of it really, even if our food bills have gone up. My kids are a lot happier now I’m not “Daddy Death” and even my wife’s embraces seem a little less perfunctory. Still, I can’t pretend I don’t miss the camaraderie and the comforting hiss of the valve. Our rabbit’s getting on a bit now and I may have to take him to see an old friend soon, just for old times’ sake.